


With All Your Shame, Come

by Nanoochka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Artist Allison, Artist Derek, Artist Stiles, Derek Has Issues, Developing Relationship, Difficult Decisions, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Execution, Family Dynamics, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, Hale Family Feels, Life Drawing, M/M, Model Stiles, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, The Hale Fire, Warning: Kate Argent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek, Laura, and Cora, last remaining survivors of the fire that killed their entire family, return to Beacon Hills fifteen years later to witness the state execution of the woman responsible, Kate Argent. Although Laura vehemently opposed coming back in the first place and Cora seems indifferent at best, Derek attempts to make the most of their temporary relocation by signing up for a life-drawing class. He is reunited with a familiar face from the night of the fire, Stiles, who also happens to be the model.</p><p>When Stiles and Derek tentatively begin seeing each other and Derek starts to imagine a life after Kate, one not defined solely by his guilt over his family's death, it becomes clear he isn't the only one struggling with the wave of emotions and memories associated with Beacon Hills. Cora seems to be growing more and more hostile over the stress of trying to mourn a family she barely remembers, while Laura, who ruthlessly suppressed her own grief in favour of caring for her younger siblings and trying to fill her mother's role of Alpha, begins to show signs of cracking under the pressure of maintaining a collected facade and hiding her fears of Derek leaving her behind in the past with their ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complex story that will likely end up being at least 100k long, but I decided to begin posting as a means of encouraging myself to finish, hopefully with the support and menacing threats of readers. I wanted to write a story that concentrated as much on Derek's emotional issues and past trauma as it did Laura and Cora's, who in my eyes would have also gone through an incredibly challenging and likely overdue mourning process over their family. For once, I wanted to see Derek in the role of someone who is ready to move on and start the healing process (with Stiles's help, of course, not that it's a cakewalk by any means) while Laura in particular finds herself having to confront grief that she has put off feeling for years, too consumed with the task of assuming the role of Alpha and primary caregiver. I imagine it would be terrifying to be forced to turn your attention inward when you no longer have the old distractions of family to fall back on, and I really hope I can do her character justice. Cora, too, since I imagine her having an equally difficult mourning process considering that she would have been so young at the time of the fire.
> 
> All the trigger warnings that typically apply to stories involving Kate Argent are consistent here, but there is the added factor of her being a death row inmate scheduled to be executed in the near future. I had to futz a couple things in terms of the average amount of time spent on death row in California, but put it at about fifteen years for Kate. I also refer to "modern" execution methods used elsewhere in America but not necessarily California (eg. the use of pentobarbital in lethal injections), since in my research I encountered reports of the number of planned executions being on the rise again in states that use this drug, as it seems to have expedited the process in a way I won't bother getting into. I do not personally support the death penalty, and this story doesn't glorify it--rather, it merely portrays a fact of the justice system in California and the effect it has on victims' families.
> 
> My most heartfelt thanks to [Chai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai/) for being an amazing beta and sounding board, and [Nat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/febricant/) for being a most enthusiastic cheerleader and my favourite person. 
> 
> The title of the story is taken from Warsan Shire's "First Thought After Seeing You Smile."
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://nanoochka.tumblr.com)!

 

"Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you."

\- John Green,  _The Fault in Our Stars_

 

**prologue.**

 

     On the night Kate Argent died, her final words to Derek were “I knew you’d come, sweetie.” The clock read 12:01 a.m. By twelve minutes past, she’d taken her final breath.

     From the tender age of sixteen, Derek had been led to believe the last thing he’d ever hear from Kate’s mouth was a prophecy--a sultry “I know how much you love me, baby, and I’m gonna be with you forever,” whispered into his ear a few hours before she locked his family in the basement of their house and burned them alive. In more ways than one, but mostly because of that, Derek spent years punishing himself for how he’d immortalized her in his mind, made her promise come true by always remembering and remembering and remembering.

     It was a cruel thing to allow someone to live on in memory like that after committing such a terrible crime, eight people dead and four others doomed to live out the rest of their lives wishing they’d been among them, but wasn’t immortality primarily what motivated any killer to take a life, regardless of whatever other secondary factors might drive them? If Kate hadn’t been a werewolf hunter and the Hales an easy target, she would’ve found some other way, some other reason to leave an everlasting mark elsewhere. That was just one more thing Derek never been able to deny her, along with his innocence, his love, his naivety, and most importantly, the key to his family’s house.

     Laura, his sister, had been against the idea of returning to Beacon Hills to witness Kate’s execution from the start. It’d been nearly years since the fire, and on the day the letter arrived via registered mail to inform them of the date that’d been set for Kate to die via lethal injection, she and Derek and their little sister Cora had yelled and thrown things and cried and snarled at each other late into the night until their rented Brooklyn brownstone looked and felt more like a battleground than a home.

     “The last thing I need is to see that bitch get a peaceful lights out,” Laura had spat, drying their dinner plates at the sink in what was probably the angriest fashion Derek had ever seen. It was a miracle she didn’t smash each one to bits as she slammed them down on the countertop one after another, though that came later. “There was nothing peaceful about the way she killed our family, Der--she deserves a worse death than some goddamned state-appointed execution can deliver with a needle. I know you think being there will make a difference for us, but it won’t. Our family will still be dead and we’ll still be a couple of screwed-up kids without a pack. What’s done is done. Trust me, there’s absolutely nothing to be gained by going.”

     But that’s where she’d been wrong; Derek knew better than anyone never to underestimate the potency of getting, having--stealing back--the last word. He’d accepted Cora’s consoling, silent hand on his shoulder as a gesture of solidarity, while Laura took it as a sign of defeat.

     Except, of course, that she’d been right. Derek Hale at twenty-nine was apparently just as capable of making stupid decisions on account of Kate Argent as he’d been at fifteen. The argument had continued for weeks before Laura finally caved and booked them three plane tickets to California, which she’d silently handed over to Derek one night before retreating into her bedroom and slamming the door. At the time, he’d felt a grim sense of satisfaction at the knowledge he’d get to see the whole horrible business through to the end, to be able to look into Kate’s eyes one last time and watch the light go out of them, to know in his heart it was _done_.

     He hadn’t anticipated her getting the last word again--against all odds, sending him off for good this time not with a curse, but a kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full notes are listed before the previous chapter/prologue, so if you want a longer explanation of the story, look there.
> 
> Some people will recognize the snippet I posted on my Tumblr recently--I bet you thought it was gonna be a lighthearted story about Derek drawing Stiles like one of his French girls, huh? Psych. It's like you don't know me at all.
> 
> Again, my most heartfelt thanks to [Chai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai/) for being an amazing beta and soundboard and [Nat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/febricant/) for cheering me on and giving me ever-helpful feedback.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://nanoochka.tumblr.com)!

**one.**

 

     The cost of getting his life back was ten weeks and ninety-five dollars.

     It was at the library that Derek originally spotted the flyer advertising life-drawing classes at the Beacon Hills community centre, and for less than a hundred bucks, he didn’t have much to lose. Dr. Deaton, his therapist back in New York, had been after him for ages to take up a hobby, but it wasn’t until he found out about the art classes that Derek actually bothered taking the shrink’s advice.

     He had no idea what’d changed his mind, motivated him to unpin the flyer from the corkboard, fold it, and stick it in his pocket to take home. Popular theory suggested cultivating new interests--or old interests, in this case, since Derek was an architect by trade and had always been fond of art, even the non-technical kind--was an important step in moving beyond the grieving process and learning to celebrate life again. But Derek had been grieving the death of his family for almost two decades and had never seriously considered pursuing a new activity.

     After you’d lost nearly your entire family and learned what it was like to finally forget your mother’s face or your father’s laugh, _living_ , frankly, breathing, getting out of bed, remembering to eat and shower and occasionally go outside, felt like novel pursuits all on their own. To say that Derek was out of practice at both art and moving on would’ve been be a massive understatement, but they also said “better late than never,” right? Derek couldn’t pretend it was harder than he thought it would be, though, because he never thought it’d be easy to begin with. Hence being stuck in a rut for fourteen years.

     His first class was scheduled to take place that evening. As Derek washed his face in front of the bathroom mirror and glared at the conspicuous shadows beneath his eyes, he pictured the number of people who’d be present to observe his ineptitude--artistic, social, or otherwise--and with a sigh, contemplated not going. (A werewolf in a life-drawing class: there had to be a joke in there somewhere.) But then again, it was an amateur course, so it wasn’t like he’d be surrounded by budding Michelangelos and da Vincis. He could show up, spend two hours drawing a fat naked guy reclining on an artfully draped sheet, then come home and resume being a professional recluse. Piece of cake.

     “I’m going out!” he shouted in the direction of Laura’s bedroom as he finished tying the laces on his boots. He had no idea where Cora had wandered off to, but that just made it easier to dodge suspicion.

     He slipped out the door without waiting for a response. That was something he hadn’t done since high school, taken off with minimal warning so as to avoid having to explain himself. Derek might’ve been older and a bit bigger, but his reasons for sneaking out were mostly the same.

     The radio stayed off during the drive across town, like even the background noise of songs about lost love might distract Derek’s focus, damage the surprising amount of concentration it took to not turn the car around and go back, a tactical retreat if there ever was one.

     It got more difficult when his destination came into view from a good three blocks away. Derek peered at it distrustfully even as he guided the rental car into the parking lot, still considering whether it’d be totally irrational to just give up now and go home. No one had to know he’d tried and failed to do something as simple as take an art class. No one except for himself.

     He sighed and got out of the car.

     The Richard and Talia Hale Community Center was a large, modern structure that stood out amidst the samey midcentury architecture of Beacon Hills, but Derek probably could’ve designed it in his sleep. The brochures boasted that it housed two gymnasiums, a fully equipped workout gym, locker rooms, steam baths and saunas, a swimming pool complete with waterslide, basketball and squash courts, a daycare centre, and several art studios and classrooms. A bit excessive for a town with a population under thirty thousand, maybe, but the money’d been there, so.

     This was Derek’s first time being here, since none of the surviving Hales had bothered to attend the grand opening ceremony four years ago, and it was more than a little strange for him to find himself standing in a building named after his parents. Its construction had been paid for by a generous donation from his Uncle Peter, following the house fire that’d claimed the lives of their family members and left Peter himself in a coma for three years. Apparently Peter’s first words, when he’d been notified of his portion of the insurance payout, were “Get rid of it, I don’t care how,” but he’d later revised his wishes to include putting the money back into the community in the form of this centre, then insisted it be named in memory of his late brother and sister-in-law.

     Neither he nor Laura had objected to the choice, but Derek couldn’t help side-eying, as he walked by, the large black-and-white photograph of his family that rested above the commemorative plaque in the main lobby. He was in the picture, too, a fresh-faced teen standing alongside his little brothers Jude and Joshua and Cora and her twin, Emily, as well as Peter and his deceased wife and children. Derek had his father’s arm around his shoulders, and his mother and Laura smiled beatifically behind them, a proud matriarch and her heir apparent.

     With the exception of Derek, Laura, and Cora, everyone in the photo was now dead. Peter, too. He’d been Kate Argent’s last victim, the one that’d finally gotten her thrown behind bars and found guilty of one count of first-degree aggravated arson and nine counts of first-degree murder.

     Out of habit and longing, Derek paused to study each of their faces, including his own younger one. Someone would almost certainly recognize him from the picture while he was here, would stare and whisper and probably point, because people were dicks like that. It was doubtful anyone in Beacon Hills didn’t know exactly who he was and how long he’d been back in town, or why. Small communities were claustrophobic that way, and he wasn’t just imagining how the eyes of curious townsfolk had followed him everywhere since the day he arrived, keeping track of his comings and goings, even if it was something as inane as going for a run or buying a latte at the local coffee shop downtown or putting gas in the car.

     “I almost forgot how much I hate this place,” Laura had said in summary when they first drove past the sign that proclaimed _Welcome to Beacon Hills!_ on their way into town from the Redding airport. Since then, she hadn’t once left the apartment without the protection of her wide-brimmed hat or movie star sunglasses, when she left the house at all, but--inwardly at least--Derek couldn’t quite adopt her indifference or cynicism, even her commitment to resenting every minute they were forced to be here.

     Even Cora seemed to be taking her cues from Laura’s behavior, scoffing dismissively or responding with outright hostility at every turn. Derek affected boredom well enough, performed a dry expression and deadpan delivery whenever someone bothered to talk to him, but didn’t quite feel it all the way down like Laura did. She’d be rolling her eyes and sighing disapprovingly if she knew what he was doing right now.

     Looking away from the photograph, Derek removed his sunglasses and peered around the rest of the foyer. The lobby was a large, open space seemed to split off into a number of labyrinthine corridors, judging from the visitor’s map, but there were posted signs telling Derek how to find the main art space where his class was to take place. He followed them deeper into the building to a studio at the far end, and when he pushed past the doors and stepped inside, found himself faced with a surprisingly large room suffused with natural light from huge frosted-glass windows on one wall and skylights from above. It was nearing sunset, so the overhead interior lights had been turned on, too, flushing out all the shadows.

     It was a studio, nothing more, nothing less. Certainly not the torture chamber Derek had apparently expected. A number of drawing stations sat in staggered semicircles around a central raised dais, and it was such a familiar throwback to his college days, where fine arts classes were a requirement alongside technical drawing and structural engineering credits, that Derek relaxed slightly and picked out a seat in the first row, always his preferred spot.

     He wasn’t a keener or anything, far from it; in most situations, in fact, he tended to keep to the rear of a room, close to the exit if possible. But not here. While some people preferred to be farther removed from the subject, sitting at the back and allowing themselves more removed view of the subject, Derek had always liked drawing from up close. The other students would move around over the course of the next two hours to sketch from different angles, but his chosen place was right here, where he could capture as many fine details as possible.

     A few people had arrived even earlier than Derek and were busy setting up their paper and supplies at their easels, spots staked out a wary, if respectable, distance away from each other. So far there was a man and two women, and though the man glanced up at Derek briefly and pressed his lips together in some approximation of a smile--solidarity at being two of the only men here so far? Derek had no idea--one of the women darted her attention away shyly while the other chose to stare, gaze lingering just this side of uncomfortable.

     Derek was used to unwanted attention. It’d simply become a fact of his life since he’d left puberty and his too-large ears, among other things, behind. He tried to ignore her eyes on the back of his neck as he dumped his leather messenger bag on the floor next to his chair and took a seat, then proceeded to rifle through the bag for his charcoals, eraser, and smudge stick; the sketch paper had already been provided, one large pad clipped to each easel in the studio. He ran his hand over it consideringly, feeling the familiar slickness of the butcher paper beneath the pads of his fingers, and sighed, settling himself in to wait for the teacher and the rest of the class.

     Only a few more minutes went by before the other students began filing in, a mix of men and women--but mostly women, the way a lot of recreational art classes tended to be. Some of them were already acquainted, by the looks of it, their cheerful conversation and laughter echoing from the hallway outside and into the studio as they pushed past the doors and found their seats, sitting together in little clumps that hinted at the cliques that would form over the course of the next ten weeks.

     Already Derek was an outsider, which was how he preferred it, pretty much, but he couldn’t help the way his cheeks flushed when he picked up on the keen looks that began drifting his way, snippets of whispered exchanges of “ _Holy crap, who the hell is_ that _Adonis?_ ” and “ _Is that the model? That’s gotta be the model, right? His_ muscles _have muscles_ ,” and, of course, “ _Hey, doesn’t that look like one of the Hale kids? I think I saw something about them in the paper last week._ ”

     He didn’t know whether to smirk or grimace in displeasure, but that would’ve just given him away; there was no feasible way a normal person could hear what was being whispered about them from across the room. So Derek chose to pretend he couldn’t hear what was being said about him and ignored the appreciative glances, defaulting to the path of least resistance. He certainly didn’t make eye contact, though one of the young men who’d just arrived seemed particularly determined to catch his gaze, staring at him intently and wetting his lips just obviously enough that Derek could see it even out of the corner of his eye. Most people might’ve considered flirting back or maybe throwing in a little smile, just to be friendly. Derek had tried that too, once, for a time anyway, but he mostly couldn’t be bothered to deal with the fallout when he’d inevitably have to tell them thanks but no thanks. It was better not to encourage anything.

     The last person to walk in was a tall, slender young woman with chocolate-brown hair tied up in a messy bun. She was fair-skinned, pretty, dressed in a way that was both bohemian and fashionable, and from the way she walked confidently into the middle of the room, standing just at the edge of the model’s dais, every inch of her screamed _art teacher_. One by one, the students quieted down, focusing their attention now that the class was obviously about to start, and the teacher’s gaze skimmed over each of them, clearly trying to count the number of people present.

     When she reached the last one--Derek--she gave a satisfied smile and a small, self-conscious wave, then said, “Hi everyone, thanks for coming. It looks like we’re all here except for the model”--at this, Derek’s admirers exchanged surprised glances--“so I guess I can go ahead and start my spiel, which I promise to keep short since I know you’re here to learn and not listen to me babble on.” There were a couple laughs at that, but then she was saying, “I’m Allison Argent, and I’ll be your instructor for the next two and a half months,” and Derek’s hearing fairly fizzled out at the mention of _that name_ so that he missed most of the rest of what she said.

     Rationally, Derek understood Allison was probably too young to have had anything to do with it, and to tar her with the same brush as Kate was unfair. Still, it was hard not to feel traumatized by the realization that standing before him was a member of the same family that’d ruined his life when he was fifteen. It was mildly shocking to learn the Argents had resettled in Beacon Hills at some point while he was off in New York trying to bury the past, but evidently they were an established enough part of the community for Allison to be teaching a local class, probably to people who knew her already.

      _She’s practically a teenager; she couldn’t have had anything to do with it_ , Derek tried to reassure himself, tamping down on the sudden strong desire to pack up his things and get the fuck out of there. _Whatever her relationship is to Kate, this isn’t the woman who killed your family. Chill the fuck out._

     He forced himself to tune back in just as Allison said, “Just finished my last semester at CalArts,” putting her around twenty-two, twenty-three, tops, and that was enough to keep Derek relatively calm for the time being, though his breathing had sped up, heart slamming in his chest while Allison opened the floor to the other students so they could make their individual introductions, each person throwing in what they felt were relevant details like what they did for a living or how long they’d been doing art or what they wanted to learn.

     When it came to his turn, he said, “I’m Derek Hale,” and nothing else, not trusting himself to say more, but didn’t miss the sound half the class sucking in a collective sharp breath, nor how Allison went a bit wide-eyed in recognition of his name.

     Well. At least the feeling was mutual there. She may have been barely out of preschool when the fire happened, but it was clear she knew exactly who the Hales were and the tragedy that connected them to the Argents. How could she not? Almost everyone did, lately, even those who didn’t _have_ to talk about it around the dinner table, who didn’t have an aunt or a daughter or sister connected to what had fast become a well-publicized court case. Derek didn’t think he was imagining the pity in Allison’s gaze either; it was always present, even when he’d rather not see it, though the source was a bit surprising under the circumstances.

     Allison attempted to cover her falter with a flash of a bright smile and dimples, and said, “Feel free to keep getting yourselves set up, we’re just waiting on our model now. You know how us artsy types can be when it comes to punctuality.” Even if it was a poor excuse for a stalling tactic, Derek was so relieved he didn’t even care.

     The other students immediately resumed their conversations, now less coyly about Derek and his sisters, naturally, and arranged their easels and supplies to their liking. Derek didn’t move, eyes trained on Allison, and for a moment he thought she looked tempted to come over, to say something, maybe, though he hadn’t the first idea what or why she’d possibly think it wise.

     She’d taken a hesitant step in his direction when a new figure suddenly burst into the room, propelling himself through the studio doors and announcing himself with a loud “Sorry I’m late!!!” Derek could practically hear the extra exclamation points at the end as the newcomer, a young man wearing thick hipster glasses, flannel, a wool hat and cardigan in freaking _summer_ , oversized headphones, high-tops, and skinny jeans, screeched to a halt next to Allison. He was breathing hard, but a cheeky smile curved his lips when he looked at her and received an exasperated eye-roll in response, though she was smiling, too, like she didn’t want to be but couldn’t help herself. Blessedly, Derek was, for the moment, forgotten.

     “What’d I miss?” he asked.

     All eyes had snapped to the front of the room at the young man’s entrance, presumably to take in the human whirlwind of activity and flailing limbs, and there were some speculative murmurs as to his identity as he whipped off his hat and headphones and flashed a charming, self-deprecating grin that seemed to encompass the entire class and everyone individually at once. He ruffled his hair to unflatten it from his head, and the effect was surprisingly impish, adding to his air of boyishness. A couple of the girls giggled, smiling and whispering behind their hands like they hadn’t just been fixated on Derek thirty seconds ago, but Derek didn’t need to guess who the kid was because he already knew the answer.

     On the day of the Hale house fire fourteen years ago, the deputy who’d escorted Derek and Laura to the police station had been a man by the name of John Stilinski; he was now the Sheriff of Beacon County, but Derek still remembered him. Remembered, too, the young boy who’d been kicking around the police station while he waited for his dad. As if sensing Derek and his sisters’ distress, he’d come to sit with them and offered to share some of the carrot sticks he had with him for a snack, all but clinging to Laura’s arm when she accepted. He’d looked at her, Cora, and Derek with the kind of wide-eyed awe that seemed to overcome some kids in the presence of their older peers, and based on the fact that Stiles was hanging around a police station by himself, Derek had figured he was an only child or didn’t have many friends, or both. That maybe Stiles was a little short on family, too.

     Still, John had admonished him gently, saying, “Stiles, son, I think you oughta give them some space, huh? They’ve just been through an ordeal.” But Laura had put an arm around Stiles’s shoulders and said, mulishly, “I’d like him to stay, if that’s okay with you.” Though Derek hadn’t said anything, he’d agreed with the sentiment, finding the kid’s guileless and slightly hyperactive temperament oddly grounding when nothing else in his head made sense. Except, of course, for the one thought that’d kept playing on repeat: _It’s your fault they’re dead._

     Stiles might not have been that gawky kid anymore, but he still had the same large, long-lashed brown eyes and curious, pouty mouth, still possessed a multitude of dark moles that liberally dotted his fair skin and disappeared into his hair. Where he’d once been a jumble of awkward limbs and distracted, almost manic energy, he seemed to have grown into himself, settled into his own skin in a way that was effortless and, if Derek was honest, distractingly attractive.

     As opposed to Derek, who seemed to have grown steadily more _un_ comfortable with himself over time, and less relaxed in the presence of other people as a result. He wondered if he was half as recognizable to Stiles as Stiles was to him, then paused to question why he should even give a shit.

     Right now, Stiles was too busy being fondly lectured by Allison, who’d folded her arms across her chest in a way that entirely failed at looking stern as she sighed, “Seven o’clock, Stiles, remember? I watched you put it into the calendar on your phone myself.”

     “I know, I’m sorry,” Stiles whined, and sidled up to Allison to give her a messy, exaggerated peck on the cheek.

     Watching them, Derek didn’t know what their story was, if she and Stiles were just classmates or friends or something more; but he saw it happen, the exact moment Allison gave up on being exasperated with him and allowed herself to be mollified.

     For good measure, Stiles added, “I feel like a tool for keeping everyone waiting, but I’m told having to strip down in front of a room full of strangers entitles me to a free pass.” From the crooked smile and the flirtatious wink he directed at the rest of the class--who even did that anymore, except maybe people with a facial tic?--Derek decided Stiles had probably been aware of the effectiveness of his charm for some time.

     As Stiles went to dump his things near the table where Allison had stashed her own belongings, Allison turned back to the class and clapped her hands together once, which was either a nervous gesture or something she’d seen other teachers do before, even if it’d have been more appropriate in a room full of kindergarteners. At any rate, it distracted everyone’s attention away from Stiles and back to her--except for Derek, because he definitely hadn't been watching Stiles in the first place.

     “This is Stiles Stilinski, a friend of mine from CalArts,” she explained brightly. “He’s also graduating this summer with a major in illustration, and teaches a comic arts camp for kids here, as well as our advanced life drawing class. But I’m sure some of you recognize him from around town, too.”

     “Either that or you’ve gotten a speeding ticket from my dad, the sheriff,” Stiles quipped from across the room, not bothering to lift his head from where he was digging through his backpack.

     At first Derek thought he was looking for something, but a moment later, he realized it was just the opposite: Stiles had started packing his things away, winding up the cord on his earphones and then removing his watch and glasses, obviously getting ready to disrobe.

     He kicked off his shoes next, rolled his socks down over his feet, then shed his cardigan before adding, “If anyone’s wondering, claiming to have seen me in my birthday suit in public will not erase your past traffic violations.”

     Like she was well used to Stiles’s mouthiness, Allison rolled her eyes through the students’ obligatory laugh and continued, “Stiles also likes to think he’s a comedian in his spare time. But really he’s just here as a favour to me, since models don’t come cheap and I’d rather not charge all of you an arm and a leg just to be here. Besides, he owes me one, and beggars can’t be choosers.”

     Stiles flipped her the bird as he gathered up a fluffy white bathrobe from the table and disappeared himself behind a folding screen, presumably to remove the rest of his clothes, but Allison ignored him and explained they’d be starting off with a series of ten-minute poses with a few five- and fifteen-minute ones thrown in just for fun, and that her goal for today was not so much to instruct but rather to get a feel for everyone’s skill level and observe their technique, make sure they were in the right class and not better suited to another level. Diplomatically, she mentioned Stiles’s advanced class again, rather than suggesting anyone here might be better off taking the beginner one, though Derek thought that was implied.

     She talked over the rustle of fabric from behind her and Stiles’s idle humming, and paid him no mind as he draped his clothes over the top of the screen like this was something she saw all the time. Which, given her area of study, it probably was, and that was enough to remind Derek he ought to be less distracted by the thought of Stiles stripping just a few feet away. He was here to practice drawing, not ogle the life model like a total creep.

     He was staring intently at his sketchpad and deliberately not watching the periphery when Stiles emerged from behind the screen decked out in his robe, flushed and beaming a bit too brightly in a way that suggested he was more nervous about exposing himself than he let on. Certainly, the increased heart rate Derek could hear reinforced this, and as Stiles strolled up to Allison he seemed more jittery than before, swinging his arms exaggeratedly and bumping his fist against the flat of his opposite palm as his hands came together in front of his body.

     The rest of the students busied themselves with getting their stations ready and making sure they had everything they’d need set out in front of them, but Derek, having already done this at the start of the class, had no choice but to overhear as Allison dragged Stiles closer and turned him slightly away from everyone, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

     There was no mistaking it, the way Allison tried and failed to disguise the look she shot back at him, nor the extremely unsubtle way Stiles glanced up to follow her gaze, eyes landing squarely on Derek. The look on his face was startled, full of recognition but bordering on shocked, and his and Derek’s eyes met and held for a second before Stiles twitched his gaze back to Allison and went even more brilliantly red than before.

     He hissed back, “Dude, how did you not notice his name on the class roster beforehand? Don’t you think it’ll be just _a little bit_ awkward to spend ten weeks in a classroom with the guy whose family your aunt killed?”

     Derek sighed and attempted not to roll his eyes too hard and give away the fact that he could hear their every word. He knew they didn’t mean to be, usually, but people could be assholes. It shouldn’t have, but the fact that Allison’s aunt was now awaiting sentencing in a highly publicized case brought him a small bit of relief, along with the fact that, if anything, the Argents were at _least_ as gossiped about around town as him and Laura. As for Stiles’s interest in Derek--well, the kid had a history of poking his nose in places in didn’t belong. As a cop’s kid, it was probably hardwired into his DNA.

     Then again, Derek thought, watching as they turned back to the room and tried to pretend like they hadn’t just been freaking out, maybe Stiles _did_ get a free pass on account of having to lie there naked while fourteen-odd people tried to perfect drawing the wrinkles on his balls.

     Stiles cleared his throat and sauntered over to the dais like this was just a normal Wednesday, but without his clothes or his glasses or his massive headphones, he was without protection, and there was no disguising how vulnerable and young he looked.

     “Sorry in advance you have to stare at my pale, skinny ass for the next couple hours,” he told the class in an attempt to dispel some of the tension--or was it anticipation?--then jerked a thumb behind him toward Allison. “For what it’s worth, she’s practically my sister-in-law, so this is gonna be _way_ more uncomfortable for her.”

     And with that, he unfastened the robe and shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it pool around his feet so the dais was a bit more artfully disguised by the terrycloth. It avoided inviting some unfortunate _Venus de Milo_ associations, though just barely. When Stiles attempted to find a casual standing pose, seemingly unsure what to do with his arms--or legs, or face, for that matter--for a moment he betrayed the awkward, uncoordinated kid he’d once been.

     He finally settled with one hip slightly cocked and his hands resting naturally at his sides, and he’d have looked relaxed were it not for the nervous tattoo his fingers tapped out against the side of his leg and the two bright splotches of colour that slowly bled from his face down his jaw and neck and towards his chest. For reasons Derek absolutely didn’t want to think about, that flush was excruciatingly distracting in its own right. It didn’t help that Stiles kept shooting him surreptitious looks every couple seconds, doing a horrible job of hiding his curiosity even with an entire room of people staring at him in return.

     But then he quipped, “Draw me like one of your French girls, Jack,” ruining the moment and earning himself a relieved chuckle from the other students, plus Allison slapping a palm over her eyes and hissing, “Models are supposed to be _silent_ , Stiles.”

     Despite himself, Derek felt his lip twitch at what was either a routine act between them or some genuinely disarming antics, and he knew he’d gotten caught because of how Stiles smirked back at him, eyes laughing. Christ.

     Even as Derek dusted his fingers, grabbed a stick of charcoal, then rested it against the sketch paper, he internally bemoaned the fact that he should’ve signed up for a still life class so he could draw an apple or an empty vase, rather than forcing himself to stare at a... particularly well-formed young man for a prolonged period of time. Without being affected. Or better yet, pretending not to be affected. Which was almost worse.

     Derek thought he swallowed audibly as he attempted to take Stiles in, utterly failing in his quest to be objective and professional in the manner of an artist observing his subject. It was with a minimally critical eye at best that he observed Stiles’s tall, slender figure, tight and leanly muscled beneath his pale, pale skin and surprising amount of body hair. Derek’s pulse was speeding like a runaway train, less because he liked what he saw--though he did, Jesus, okay, he didn’t even have the wherewithal to convince himself otherwise--and more because he suddenly had the strong, almost frantic urge memorize the body in front of him before he could even think about trying to focus on drawing it, like a particularly prized treasure he had to hoard himself before it got taken away. If there’d been another werewolf in the room, he’d have been totally busted.

     But there wasn’t, and with nothing else to give him away, Derek was nothing if not a good poker face. Greedily, he drank in everything from Stiles’s broad shoulders and wiry arms to the dark patch of hair nestled between his pecs, the sharp, whittled-down definition of his shoulders and torso, muscles Derek forced himself to name from memory: deltoid, trapezius, sternocleidomastoid, pectoralis major, serratus anterior.

     His eyes roved downward to Stiles’s sharply pronounced hipbones and achingly narrow hips, then onto his generously proportioned hands and feet. Stiles’s limbs were long and predictably lanky, his thighs so slim they looked roughly the same size as Derek’s biceps, which either meant Stiles needed to eat more or Derek should dial back on the amount of time he spent at the gym. In his consideration, Derek even noticed that Stiles’s toenails were kept oddly neat for a man his age, though his slightly ragged fingernails showed signs of a biting habit.

     From there, it seemed almost a natural progression for his gaze to travel to the one place he’d heretofore avoided staring at directly, and Derek could feel the tips of his ears going hot but ultimately couldn’t stop himself from letting his eyes follow the thick trail of hair down from Stiles’s navel to the thatch between his legs, gaze coming to rest upon his heavy, quiescent cock with a feeling of inevitability, almost as though Derek felt lighter for having allowed himself a long, honest look.

     He was... well-endowed, Derek noticed almost absently. Not obscenely so, but enough that he definitely didn’t have anything to be ashamed about, and Derek imagined other students in the class raising their eyebrows, getting ideas. (Then again, maybe they were all proper adults, and Derek was the only immature idiot making the very amateur faux pas of confusing the model for a piece of meat.) But he didn’t think so. Whatever whispering had been going on before had abruptly stopped, though Derek thought he heard someone wetting their lips. He had to pause for a second to make sure it wasn’t him, and almost sighed in relief when he heard the sound again from across the room.

     Where looks were concerned, Uncle Peter always used to say God never gave with both hands, but Derek thought a higher power might’ve made a fucking exception in Stiles’s case. He wondered if Stiles might’ve disagreed with him there--he’d probably spent more than a few years hating his skinny frame and upturned nose, his soft, almost feminine features--and sure, he might never be a model by conventional standards, but to Derek, the mere sight of him almost physically hurt.

     When he finally, finally lifted his gaze, Stiles was staring right back at him--watching Derek look at him, more accurately--with something of a stunned expression on his face, pupils dilated and his lips parted ever so slightly, breathing just fast enough to look like the most provocative thing ever. Derek realized his own heart wasn’t the only one beating furiously; he could actually see the rapid pulse of blood in Stiles’s neck beneath the thin white skin.

     Derek’s stomach lurched, the first time in God knew how long since he’d registered another person’s beauty like a punch to the gut. He was twenty-nine, for Christ’s sake, well past the point in his life where an attractive body casually on display was enough to give him a hard-on, but it was the look of recognition in Stiles’s dark eyes, rather, that stirred the beginning of an erection and made Derek want to shift uncomfortably in his seat. If Stiles didn’t already seem to know exactly what Derek was thinking, that would give him away for sure.

     There was a gentle clearing of a throat from behind him, and though Derek didn’t jump, Stiles did, eyes going wide. Guiltily, Derek glanced down at the very empty expanse of butcher paper in front of him, then shifted his eyes to the side to see everyone else around him was already sketching away. He turned his head and found Allison standing there with her arms folded, though from the way she was blushing, she looked more embarrassed than stern, having obviously caught Derek and Stiles out in the middle of their little staring contest.

     Derek fully expected her to make a comment about why he hadn’t drawn anything yet--frankly, that’s what he’d have done, because Laura told him on a regular basis that he had no social graces--but instead Allison whispered, “So, um, you’re Derek Hale. Obviously.”

     That wasn’t at all what Derek had anticipated. From the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles’s expression morph into one of mortification.

     “I... am,” Derek answered reluctantly, keeping his face as blank as possible. “There a problem?”

     “Well... no, not exactly, but...” For a moment Allison appeared to search for the right words, but then gave up and firmed her mouth into a determined line, eyes meeting Derek’s squarely. “Look, we both know I know who you are, and you know who I am--or who my aunt is, at least--so there’s no point tiptoeing around it. I just want to say I’m sorry for what happened to you and your family and that you’ve waited so very long to see justice carried out. It’s horrible and there’s no way an apology can ever make up for what Kate did, but...”

     “Kate’s never apologized for what she did,” Derek said coldly, neglecting to add, _And she never will._

     Allison looked him square in the eye. “No one else in my family shares her views,” she said quietly, making Derek wonder how much this girl knew of her family’s legacy, their heritage. “No one we talk to, anyway. I don’t support the death penalty, but what she did… An eye for an eye doesn’t even begin to cover it.” She let that hang there for a second, then sighed. “Look, this is probably violating a whole bunch of conflict of interest rules, but if you’re okay with me being your teacher and don’t find it too weird, I’m happy to have you here.”

     Stiles must have covered his face with his hand or something, because one of the students at the back suddenly said, “Uh, can you not move? Some of us are actually trying to draw here.”

     Derek glanced away from Allison’s face in time to see there was more or less an even split between people in the class who were staring at them and baldly trying to eavesdrop, and those determined to ignore them and keep sketching. Stiles’s face was redder than before and he was glaring at Allison, but when Derek caught his gaze, he immediately looked flustered.

     “I don’t think I was supposed to say anything,” Allison said ruefully, shooting a menacing look back at Stiles. “He knows more about the legal stuff than I do. But it would’ve bothered me not to, so.”

     “That’s, um... fine,” Derek answered eloquently. It’d been fourteen fucking years, almost fifteen, and he still hadn’t learned how to accept sympathy from others with any amount of graciousness. “It’s nice of you to apologize, but not necessary. I hadn’t planned on quitting the class.” He didn’t bother to mention how close he’d come to leaving at first.

     “Okay... good. Okay.” Allison nodded to herself, looking satisfied, but then she squinted one eye at at him a little. “I’m sure everyone will be talking about it, but maybe let’s just keep this between us, yeah?”

     “I think I can manage that,” Derek deadpanned, beyond ready to be done with this conversation.

     “Is it weird that I came to talk to you?”

     From the dais, Stiles burst out with “Yes!” at the same time Derek demurred, “No, it’s fine,” and this time both he and Allison glared at Stiles until he shut up and went back to holding his pose.

     Behind Derek, a man muttered, “Thank Christ.”

     Derek shot Stiles another annoyed look but said to Allison, “I’m glad, um. Glad you did. That was big of you, so... thanks.”

     They were silent for a moment, even Stiles, and then Allison’s gaze ticked over to Derek’s empty sketchpad. “So... is this your first time taking a life drawing class?” she asked courteously, head tilted.

     Derek’s blush returned, and he wondered what the fuck had happened to him in the space of an evening that he’d suddenly become so... sensitive. “It’s been a while, but no. Not my first time.” He hoped his tone of voice conveyed he’d prefer not to talk about it, but Allison either didn’t get the memo or refused to take the hint because she was a terrible person.

     “I see. Just... planning your sketch, then.” There was a sparkle of amusement in her eyes as she glanced at Stiles--no more than a flicker of her gaze in that direction, really--and then consulted her watch. Definitely a terrible person. She seemed immune to the force of Derek’s glower, too. “Well, no pressure, but you should hurry up. We’ll be changing poses in under five minutes, and I’d really like to see what you come up with.”

     Though Derek opened his mouth to respond, Allison merely dimpled at him before moving onto the next student, whom Derek saw was almost done with the outline and gross details of the first sketch, and was now beginning some rough shading.

     With a sigh, Derek barely resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. He looked back at Stiles, who was avoiding his gaze in a way that was just a tad too deliberate, having obviously listened in on the rest of Derek and Allison’s conversation. It’d have been so easy for Derek to let himself get caught up--again--in wondering what Stiles was thinking, if Derek’s vulnerability in looking at him was as obvious to Stiles as it felt to him, if Stiles minded, if he was maybe flattered by Derek’s moment of weakness or if he thought Derek was just another creep, if, if, if. Instead, Derek forced himself to focus on the task at hand and concentrated on the overall shape of Stiles’s body and simply began to draw.

     Normally Derek liked to start with guidelines and simple shapes and work on fleshing out his sketch from there, but one thing he remembered from school was how to plan his approach according to how much time was on the clock, to make himself let go of his obsessive need for perfect lines and meticulous detail as though he were at a drafting table. Once he’d sat through an entire class of nothing but one-minute poses, a kind of life-drawing flash round designed to break students out of their comfort zones and need for perfection.

     He had a bit more time to work with here, though not much, and after he made the first stroke, Derek felt himself loosen up automatically, releasing his typically ironclad control little by little until lines and squiggles started to flow across the page like they’d been conjured there. A tentative cadence emerged with each stroke of the charcoal across the page, a gradual _quick, quick, quick, slow_ growing more confident by the second until something approximating a human form began to take shape. Though his gaze flicked up to Stiles every couple seconds, Derek no longer saw _Stiles_ so much as the space around him, the way his body interrupted the light in some places and captured the shadows in others. And if he really saw anything at all, it was not with his eyes but with his hands.

     He sensed Allison passing behind him on her second circuit of the room, though she said nothing this time and Derek didn’t glance away from his sketch. Her observation made the back of Derek’s neck tingle, and Allison stayed there a few moments, just watching, until she hummed a little to herself before announcing, “Time’s up! Next pose,” and Derek didn’t even miss a beat as he grabbed the edge of the sheet and flipped it over the top of the easel to reveal a fresh page beneath.

     Maybe he and Allison discussed his poses beforehand, or maybe he’d simply gotten more comfortable in this environment, but Stiles didn’t hesitate quite so long before assuming a new stance. Though he remained standing, he laced his fingers behind his head with his elbows pointing out, then bent his torso slightly to the left in a sideways arc, almost dancer-esque in the graceful lines it made with his body and the way it pulled his muscles taut. To give the students on the other side of the class a chance to draw him from a different angle, Stiles turned himself away, presenting Derek with the broad canvas of his back and the small, rounded globes of his ass, the sight of which made Derek pause again but thankfully not for as long as he had the first time around.

     He recovered pretty damn quickly, he thought, resisting the urge to look his fill except to plan how he’d start the next sketch. His grip on the charcoal faltered only a little when Stiles adjusted the pose so he was looking at Derek over his shoulder, gazing at him from beneath his eyelashes.

     It was possible Stiles might be flirting with him.

     With slightly fewer distractions now, Derek allowed himself to spend some time adding guidelines and the skeleton rendering of Stiles’s pose, though at the last minute he decided against a full-body sketch and flipped to a new sheet of paper. He concentrated on just the head and torso, using a quick setup of lines and loose geometric shapes to capture the basic proportions of Stiles’s upper body and arms before he began fleshing him out, so to speak.

     The ten minutes seemed to elapse even faster this round, but if Derek wasted the bulk of his time concentrating on the fine details of Stiles’s face before Allison called, “Switch!” filling in the shadows around his eyes and mouth, she didn’t comment, and Derek didn’t stop to dwell on it. The rest of the class passed pretty much the same way, the remainder of the two hours flying by as Stiles went from standing to reclining to lying down on the cushy gym mat on the dais.

     All of them were relatively unchallenging poses, suitable for a first class, but after almost ten poses and only a couple breaks in between, even Derek’s hand was aching when the clock finally struck nine o’clock, skin smudged black with charcoal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d exercised a muscle group to the point of pain, being a werewolf and all, but it felt good, like he’d earned it. As he rotated his wrist and stretched out his fingers and cracked his knuckles, he saw others in the class doing the same, complaining to one another about their throbbing hands.

     Stiles, meanwhile, was all too eager to burrow back into his bathrobe, suddenly acting shy again despite the fact that everyone more or less seemed to have grown indifferent to his nudity. Well, except Derek, maybe, because he was pretty sure the remorseful pang he felt at seeing Stiles’s skin disappear beneath the robe was, by definition, the exact opposite of indifference.

     As Stiles disappeared behind the folding screen to change back into his clothes, Allison came around handing out wet wipes so that everyone could clean their hands, and then took up a spot next to the dais to address the class while they were busy putting away their materials and unclipping their sketches from their easels.

     “I’d like everyone to leave behind two sketches from what you’ve done tonight,” she said. “One you think represents your best work, and one you think is the most in need of improvement. They won’t necessarily be your first and last sketches of the evening, so decide carefully. I’ll be taking a look at all of them before the next class, then speaking with each of you individually to discuss ways in which you can practice refining your technique and what you’re already doing well, so that as we move on to more challenging poses and exercises you’ll feel better prepared to keep up and hone your skills.

     “Your homework this week to judge the remainder of your drawings for yourself at home, and tell _me_ what you think you’ve nailed and what you might need to improve. I’d also encourage you to practice on your own, whether it’s drawing from memory or using a reference, or even refining the sketches you did tonight. And try not to be too hard on yourselves. You still have nine weeks to get yourselves to where you think you should be as artists.”

     Derek glanced down at the last drawing he’d done, and frowned. It... wasn’t very good. Even he could see that. It wasn’t _total_ crap, owing to the fact that he’d been drawing for most of his life and had taken his fair share of art classes, but objectively speaking, it also could’ve been better. Much better. His proportions were ever so slightly off and his structure needed some work, with many of his drawings looking flat and uninspired on the page.

     He flipped through the rest of the sketches and resisted the urge to sigh in frustration, reminding himself that Allison had a point: this was only the first class of many, and Derek had known going in that he was severely out of practice. Plus, looking around him, it was safe to say he wasn’t the most in need of improvement out of everyone, which was petty, but--whatever. Derek had travelled across the country to witness the public execution of the woman who’d killed his family. He deserved a goddamned free pass.

      Derek was still trying to decide which of his sketches to give to Allison--suddenly he hated all of them and didn’t want her scrutiny--when the other students started to cross to the front to the class with their drawings in hand, bags packed and obviously ready to leave. He frowned harder and wondered whether Allison would notice if he simply slipped out without leaving anything behind. He was a werewolf: not a very good one, Laura would probably argue, but even he should be able to manage creeping undetected out of a room if he put his mind to it.

     “Having some trouble choosing from among your masterpieces?” came an amused voice from behind him, and Derk jerked in surprise, half-jumping out of his seat so that he wound up elbowing his easel, knocking it off balance.

     A second hand came forward to steady the easel at the same time Derek moved to do the same, bringing him into bodily contact with an embarrassed-looking Stiles, if the bright-red tips of his ears and the hastily muttered “Shit, sorry dude,” were anything to go by. Sometime during Derek’s internal conflict over his sketches, Stiles had managed to finished dressing and sneak up on him from behind. Christ, Derek _was_ a terrible werewolf if he couldn’t even hear one kid’s approach.

     “Well, that didn’t go as I’d envisioned it,” Stiles said apologetically and half under his breath, taking a step back from Derek and the now-stabilized easel. He blinked up at Derek from behind his heavy glasses, colour vivid in his cheeks. “Didn’t mean to startle you, man.”

     Derek quickly rushed out, “You didn’t,” wishing he could control his blushing the way he could control his ability to shift into a werewolf, and it was such a blatant lie that even Stiles’s mouth quirked up in a disbelieving grin.

     Realizing how it would look even as he did it, Derek turned his back to the easel and stepped fully in front of it, blocking the sketch on display from Stiles’s vision. He cleared his throat and folded his arms, probably looking more like a bouncer than anything.

     “Can I help you with something?” The phrasing was weird and he knew it, but he also should’ve known better than to hope Stiles would let it go without a comment.

     “Like what?” he returned, sounding genuinely curious. He folded his arms across his chest as though waiting for an answer, but before Derek could open his mouth to respond, Stiles gestured vaguely at Derek’s chest and his, well... everything, and barrelled on. “I mean, from where I’m standing, you could probably give me a few tips on how to look awesome with my clothes off, but this was kind of a one-time deal. Allison already owes me her firstborn child just for getting me in here today. Plus, you know-- _you’re_ the pupil, here, in this illustrious temple of learning in which I teach. So tell me, Derek, what exactly _can_ you help me with?”

     “You’re the one who approached me,” Derek answered after a long pause, properly confused now. He couldn’t tell if that last line was meant to be flirtatious or not, especially not after such a minor tirade, though it surprised him not at all to learn there were still shades of Stiles--namely, the shades that didn’t know when to shut the fuck up--that hadn’t changed much from when he was a kid. Against all odds, Derek found himself fighting a smile; with Laura’s truly unfortunate sense of humour, however, he had a pretty impressive poker face. She and Stiles should never meet, he thought.

     His rebuttal seemed to slow Stiles up a bit, though, and he momentarily furrowed his eyebrows like Derek had just solved Fermat’s Last Theorem on the spot. Then a sly look came over his face, and Derek mentally deflated, thinking, _Crap_. He didn’t know Stiles well-- _You don’t know him at all_ , he corrected himself--but he had a sneaking suspicion that look meant nothing good. He could practically see the moment Stiles’s brain clicked over from “possibly intrigued” to “game on.”

     “Yeah, well... you’re the one who spent the whole class staring at me.”

     Stiles lowered his voice slightly in a way that would normally encourage someone to lean in nice and close in order to hear better, but Derek’s werewolf ears meant he could hear Stiles just fine without budging an inch. Not that he wouldn’t like... well. That had always been his problem: getting in his own way.

     Unfortunately--or fortunately--for him, Stiles took it upon himself to shorten the distance between them anyway, sidling just close enough to tease the limits of personal space and murmuring, “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

     Derek swallowed, his suddenly dry throat catching. “Well, this is a life-drawing class,” he said slowly, hoping he sounded just the right amount of condescending. “Did you want a gold star on your homework or something? ‘A+ observation skills, keep up the good work’?”

     Instead of acting put off by the rebuff, Stiles threw back his head and laughed, though the sound emerged somewhat more subdued than Derek had expected, still private and just between them. “I’d settle for dinner, maybe.”

     Stiles met Derek’s eyes, and Derek wasn’t proud to admit he fell into them a little bit, mesmerized by the multifaceted browns and ambers of his irises.

     Lips curling into smile that was inviting and a little bit knowing, Stiles shrugged. “I think the reason you’re back in town is kind of messed up, and I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part that you spent more time ogling my ass today than drawing it.”

     That made Derek wince. “I really don’t think that should be a point in my favour,” he said, remembering how worried he’d been that Stiles would catch him staring and think exactly that. “It was unprofessional, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. There’s no excuse for being a creep.”

     “Apology accepted,” said Stiles easily. “But I was mostly flattered, not creeped out--if you couldn’t tell.”

     The way he bit his lip and lowered his eyes at the same time absolutely _destroyed_ Derek, actually made his toes curl inside his boots; even knowing how calculated it was, that look unhinged something that filled him with panic and want simultaneously. Then Stiles looked up at him from beneath his eyelashes again, and Derek’s knees kind of wanted to give out.

     “I enjoyed it,” Stiles admitted in a whisper, leaning in a touch closer. “It was pretty sexy, sorta like the short-lived fantasies I used to have about life-drawing class before I found out what it was really like.”

     That pulled a wistful smile from them both, because yeah--life-drawing classes were about as erotic as a medical examination, something all first-year art students learned in short order.

     “But I mean, if you really want to make it up to me, I’m kind of giving you the perfect opening, here.” At Derek’s hesitation, Stiles leaned back enough to study Derek’s face, then added, “I’m also giving you a perfect opening to say no. Just tell me this isn’t a good time or you’re not looking to get involved, and I promise I’ll leave you alone and try not to take it personally.”

     “This _isn’t_ a good time,” Derek admitted, as much to himself as Stiles. If he said it out loud, maybe he’d remember all the reasons it was a terrible idea to want so badly to accept Stiles’s invitation. “And I’m _not_ looking to get involved. Things are... really complicated right now, as you know, and I’m kind of a mess. Trust me, you’re better off.” For the life of him, Derek couldn’t figure out what’d possessed him to admit that. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, which he did want to, though he closed it again when he decided it was probably best for everyone involved if he just stopped himself right there.

     “Okay.” The word came readily enough, though Derek wasn’t so heartless that he could pretend not to notice the tightness in Stiles’s smile, the shadow of disappointment around his mouth he couldn’t quite cover up fast enough with an easygoing front.

     Derek waited a moment to see if Stiles would say anything else, but he didn’t. “That’s it?” he asked uncertainly. “Just ‘okay’? Thanks for your time, have a nice life?” He’d never been asked out by anyone who let it go with that little fuss. It’s not like Derek considered himself a catch by any means, but in his experience, giving someone the brush-off was always met by bargaining, indignation, or both.

     Stiles shrugged again. He’d darted his eyes away from Derek’s face, scanning the room quickly and in a way that suggested he was quite literally checking his exits, planning how to make the fastest retreat, but he paused in the midst of this to look at Derek with one eyebrow raised, mouth ironic.

     “What else do you want me to do? Beg? Trust me, I learned the hard way what comes of chasing after someone after the first ‘no.’ I’d rather thank you for your honesty and walk away with my dignity intact, if you don’t mind. Even if I am kind of wondering why you’re still standing here, considering you could’ve blown me off almost five minutes ago.” Smile going a bit crooked at the corner, he took a step back and reached out at the same time to thwap Derek on the shoulder in a fair approximation of a good-natured buddy slap that, probably, was anything but. Obviously Derek had just gone and made things even more awkward for Stiles than they already were, and the slap was a not-so-subtle reminder of that fact. “So thanks for your time, dude. Have a nice life.”

     He spun on his heel and started making his way toward the studio doors, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, and maybe it was something about the way Stiles dropped his head and simply gestured a goodbye at Allison, clearly not interested in lingering longer than necessary, but Derek hurried after him a couple steps, not so much as to follow Stiles out the door but enough to prevent him from having to shout across the whole class.

     “Stiles, wait,” he called out, and he caught the falter in Stiles’s step and the stutter of his breath as he turned around to look at Derek, eyebrows raised in a clear expression of _what now?_

     From the corner of his eye, Derek caught Allison looking at them, pausing midconversation with another student to subtly check out what was going on. Possibly to determine whether an intervention was necessary. That was the last thing he wanted, and Derek figured out pretty quickly that he would have to suck it up and approach Stiles if he wanted to keep the rest of their conversation private. Cursing under his breath and asking himself why he was even bothering, he jogged the last few remaining steps between them.

     “How did you know who I was?” he asked, wishing for both their sakes he could just let it go, let Stiles walk away without driving the knife deeper.

     “What do you mean, how did I know?”

     “Did you recognize me from the papers or something?”

     In response, Stiles made a strange face, but he wet his lips and seemed to search Derek’s expression for some clue, doubtless to try to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

     “Are you joking?” he finally asked.

     “Why on earth would I joke about something like that?”

     With a snort, Stiles shook his head. “Yeah, I guess you don’t really look like the joking type, do you?” Not giving Derek time to protest the jab, he sighed. “Nah, man, I didn’t see you in the newspaper. I remembered you from that night when your family--”

     He trailed off, pressing his lips tightly together to stopper the part that should’ve come next: _the night your family burned to death._ Apparently Derek had been wrong; Stiles knew perfectly well how and when to shut himself up. He also, as it turned out, had a much better memory than Derek might’ve given him credit for.

     Stiles didn’t make eye contact as he continued, “I wanted so badly to be your friend. Both you and your sisters--Jesus, Cora was in my class. I was just a dumb kid, and even then all I wanted was for you to stop looking so lost and _broken_. My mom had just died, like, six months before, so I guess I recognized the look pretty well.” He abruptly cleared his throat and blinked twice, hard, like he was trying to chase the mental picture away. Derek wasn’t surprised, when Stiles glanced back up at him, to see his eyes were slightly glassy. “So to answer your question, Derek, I knew you right away.”

     He did a pretty good job of hiding it, but his face had taken on the pinched look of painful memories that Derek supposed he also recognized pretty well, and he immediately regretted asking, so much that he felt it like a blow to the solar plexus. He hadn’t intended to send Stiles to that place or turn this conversation so unexpectedly heavy, even if that’s what it was like in Derek’s head all the time. Frankly, it just proved why Stiles was better off staying far, far away from him, keeping their interaction limited to a moment of mutual appreciation and nothing more. Derek tended to drag people down with him.

     “I thought for sure you would’ve forgotten,” he said, hating himself a little for such a weak answer, but he truly didn’t know what else to say.

     “I wouldn’t forget a thing like that.” Stiles glanced behind him at the door in a way Derek couldn’t help but read as desperate, and though he flipped Derek a mock salute, he was already pulling away, closing himself off and making his escape. “Anyway, later. Again. I’m kinda running out of farewells here, so I’m just gonna... yeah.”

     This time, Derek let him go, watched Stiles’s back disappear down the hallway and turn the corner before he returned to his own easel, shoulders feeling about eighty times heavier than they had five minutes ago.

     The sketches were still sitting out in plain sight, by turns mocking and judging him, if Derek wanted to get melodramatic about it, and he indulged himself another second of staring at them, wondering if he was honestly okay with letting these piece of crap drawings be the last things he took with him of Stiles. Even to him, they seemed like a painfully shitty substitution for the real thing, which he’d just let walk out of the room without so much as a backward glance. Probably thinking--rightly--that Derek was a depressive freak and that he’d narrowly dodged a bullet.

     With a grunt of frustration, Derek snatched up the whole pile of sketches from the easel, crumpling them slightly in his fist, and then grabbed his bag.

     Allison had finished her conversation with the other student and was gathering together her own materials, but she glanced up at Derek’s approach, offering a smile that quickly faded into a concerned frown when she caught his thunderous expression.

     “Are you alright?” she asked, the words stilted like she’d thought twice about asking, but Derek just shook his head and slapped the sketches down in front of her.

     “I gotta go,” he said, and gestured vaguely at the drawings. “I’ll let you decide which of them, if any, is the moderately less terrible than the rest.” He started off toward the exit, remembering at the last minute to add, “See you next week,” over his shoulder before he slammed through the swinging doors.

     He retraced his steps through the community centre at a run, barely sparing a thought for the odd looks he got from people he passed in the hallways, and all but screeched to a halt when he reached the parking lot and found it mostly empty save for a few darkened vehicles, his rental car, and a conspicuous blue Jeep parked a few spots away. It was running, the engine a low, laboured rumble, and the tail lights cast a hazy red glow around the vehicle in the dark. Derek could faintly make out the shape of Stiles in the front seat, head bent, probably concentrating on reading something on his phone. Wondering when he’d started holding it in the first place, Derek released a breath of inexplicable relief and crossed the parking lot at a more sedate pace.

     Stiles almost jumped a mile when Derek tapped on the driver’s-side window.

     “Holy _fuck_!” he exclaimed, hand going to his chest, and for a second he just gawped through the glass before he got himself together enough to roll down the window. “Derek?” he asked pointlessly. “What’s--”

     “I didn’t think you’d still be here,” Derek huffed out. “I wanted to go after you, but I didn’t--”

     “Allison caught a ride here with a friend, but I’m waiting to drive her home,” Stiles explained, brow still furrowed.

     He made a move to open the door of the Jeep, and Derek took a couple steps back so Stiles could climb out from behind the steering wheel. The process seemed to involve him unfolding all eighteen feet of his long giraffe legs and half-leaping, half-clambering out from the vehicle. He handed on the pavement in front of Derek with a small grunt.

     “Is everything okay?”

     “Everything’s fine.” Derek came up short after that, realizing he _really_ hadn’t thought this through properly, but with no better ideas, he decided he could try defaulting to honesty and see where that got him. “It’s a colossally bad idea for me to get involved with anyone right now.”

     Stiles looked at him like he might actually be crazy. “Um... yeah, you kind of said that already. I get it, you’re not interested in going out with me. Message received.”

     Shaking his head, Derek stepped closer until there was a scant foot between them and not a lot of room for Stiles to back up farther. If he felt caged-in or threatened, Stiles didn’t appear to show it, holding his ground and staring Derek in the face until Derek sputtered, “No, that’s not what I--”

     He wanted to clench his fists, growl his frustration, but his sisters’ constantly exasperated reminder came back to him: _Derek, use your words._ It was so easy for him to talk when the subject was work or a building he’d designed, pitching proposals to the customer with a polite smile and the charm turned on as high as he could stand, but Stiles wasn’t a client he was trying to impress, wasn’t some some asshole he’d be just as glad to see the back of five minutes from now. Derek didn’t know _who_ Stiles was, exactly, but he realized he wanted to find out, almost more than he wanted to prove he himself was more than some damaged headcase with a mile-long list of issues. Stiles had already seen him at his worst, the softest parts of him exposed to the light, and even though he’d only been a little kid at the time, he hadn’t run away, hadn’t thought worse of him for it. He’d _remembered_ Derek as someone sympathetic and vulnerable and human, even if Derek didn’t see himself that way.

     “I’d just--I’d really feel a lot better if you’d just decide I’m not worth wasting your time on, rather than walking away with the idea that I turned you down because I’m not interested,” he tried to explain. “You seem like a good guy. You deserve someone better, someone who isn’t going to get you hurt in the end.”

     “Woah, woah--dude,” Stiles said, holding up a hand, though he then quickly folded his arms in a protective gesture. “I don’t even know where to start. Whose feelings are you trying to spare, here? I can’t figure out if you want me to argue with you and try to change your mind, or if you came out here hoping I would validate your--frankly terrible--self-esteem.” Too fired-up now to hold still, the flapping hands returned a second later as Stiles tried to emphasize his point. “Also, I asked you to dinner, not to move in together and get married. _Maybe_ , at the very least, I thought I’d try to score a kiss goodnight afterwards and see where things go. That’s it.”

     “I-I know,” Derek tried, and he took a step back, out of the range of Stiles’s wild gesturing and equally far enough away that he wouldn’t feel cornered. “It’s my fault.”

     “Your--what, okay, no.”

     With an anguished look, Stiles ran a hand through his hair, twisting it up into further disarray. His eyes were huge behind his glasses but he wouldn’t meet Derek’s gaze, suddenly looking nervous. When he took a step back and almost reversed right into his own Jeep, Derek knew he’d crossed a line. He just couldn’t figure out _where_ , what he’d said wrong. It was all terrible, probably, but the vibe Derek was getting from Stiles now was very different from the one he’d gotten inside, where Stiles had been disappointed but composed.

     “You know, man,” he stuttered, setting off even more warning bells in Derek’s mind, “this is going to make me sound like a full-on crazy person considering I asked _you_ out, but… maybe you’re right. Maybe this isn’t the best time to be throwing more on your plate, since obviously you’ve got a lot going on already. Like, a _lot_ a lot. Loads. It was dumb of me to even bring it up.” That Stiles had reached behind himself to grab the handle on the Jeep’s door didn’t escape Derek’s notice.

     A wave of anxiety slammed into him at the words. Mouth dry and hands disconcertingly shaky, Derek tried to swallow and found it epically difficult, like his tongue had gotten several sizes too big. He’d wanted Stiles to take his word for it that he wasn’t the most emotionally stable guy out there, but it looked like he’d gone and proven it to him instead. Stiles wasn’t embarrassed, he was _spooked_. By Derek. Fight or flight response activated, he was ready to get the fuck out of there and as far away from Derek as possible.

     “O-okay. Yeah. Sorry,” he tried, hands up placatingly, and he didn’t mangle the words, but it was a close thing.

     Derek waited a beat for Stiles to make some excuse about having to rush out to buy peanut butter on sale or go home and wash his socks, but then he remembered Stiles was stuck waiting for Allison. Who was probably taking far longer than Stiles was comfortable with at the moment. There was no other option but to do the gentlemanly thing and leave Stiles the fuck alone like he should’ve done in the first place, so Derek nodded decisively and stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. He turned abruptly on his heel and started a fast walk back in the direction of his car, cursing under his breath when he couldn’t immediately locate the remote unlock button on his keychain.

     Realizing he probably looked even crazier just rushing off like that, Derek forced out, “Nice seeing you,” over his shoulder just as he managed to unlock the door and get it open.

     He shoved himself into the driver’s side and pressed the ignition button before his foot had fully depressed the brake pedal, and then he was slamming the car into reverse and speeding out of the lot as fast as he could without squealing the tires.

     As he peeled past, Stiles just stared after him with his mouth hanging ever so slightly open, hand still raised in an uncertain farewell.


End file.
